He addressed the Indians in their language, indelibly engraved in his mind by the acids of fear and hatred. "Tell them all to come out. We will kill anyone who hides from us."
The red-turbaned Indian called over his shoulder, and slowly a group of women and small children came out of the woods.
Raoul took his reloaded pistol back from Armand and walked Banner over to the little group. They started to lower their hands.
"Keep them up." He gestured with the pistol. Slowly the copper-skinned men straightened their raised arms again, looking at one another unhappily.
Probably thought we'd welcome them with kind words and gifts. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were so rigid they ached, and his stomach was boiling. In his mind he saw again the scarred face of Black Salmon, the brown fist raised, holding a horsewhip to beat him. The sounds of Potawatomi speech brought it all back.
He handed his horse's reins to Armand, who tied Banner to an upright post in front of a nearby lodge.
"Who are you?" Raoul demanded.
"I am Little Foot," said the Indian wearing the red turban. "I am head of the Deer Clan. We live here in the town of the Winnebago Prophet."
Little Foot's skin was dark, and he had a wide, flat nose. He wore no feathers on his head, probably not wanting to look warlike. Black hair streaked here and there with white hung down from under his turban in two braids to his shoulders. Raoul judged him to be in his fifties.
He could have been at Fort Dearborn twenty years ago.